The Shirts

These shirts show signs of wear and tear,
The collars frayed, the cuffs rubbed bare.
I see the signals everywhere.

I see them in my mind like doom.
They float like ghosts upon the loom.
I slip them on like skin, perfume.

I'll have the collars turned before
I fold them neatly in the drawer.
Perhaps they'll look like new once more.


© Glen Fisher

A Poem for my Dad

The Saw

Hold this, my father said,
Meaning the board he was cutting
For another project he would never finish.
The silver-toothed saw snickered and whined.

It was his way, I guess,
Of reaching out. I saw nothing at all,
A small boy who wanted only
To go out and play.

© Glen Fisher